


Furnace

by NamelessMonk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:12:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelessMonk/pseuds/NamelessMonk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's passions are always burning hot in the hearths of his mind-palace, sometimes they even light up the windows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Furnace

"Mikey! Turn off the tele and come outside!" There was a hint of a whine in his younger brother's voice that made Mycroft roll his eyes.

"I'm learning about the ocean." Mycroft yelled back, and went back to watching a program on the tele.

"Spoiler: it's full of water." Sherlock shouted. "Now come out here! I'm being set upon by the Imperial Navy!" The older boy smiled to himself and rose from his chair.

"Avast ye scoundrel!" Mycroft snatched up a stick and challenged his little brother. "En guard!"

"Hey!" Sherlock exclaimed. "You're meant to defend me!" but his wide smile gave lie to any reproach in his words. The melee lasted a few minutes and ended with Sherlock victorious, one foot planted on his fallen brother's chest. Mycroft turned Sherlock's foot and brought him down to exact his revenge with tickling. Six years old was still young enough that Sherlock couldn't control his laughter... or his anger. In a few moments he was reduced to tears, throwing wild punches to ward off his brother.

"Ok, ok." Mycroft relented, still chuckling. "You don't have to get mad, Sherly." Sherlock had regained his composure, but a light in his eyes showed his anger still burning just under the surface. After several more minutes Sherlock quenched the embers of his temper, leaving nothing but cold and ashes. Meanwhile Mycroft pulled his little brother into an awkward hug and smiled.

"Come on, little brother." he said, steering him into the house. "How about some ice cream?"

The kitchen was immaculate, like the rest of the house except for Sherlock's room. Mycroft dished out two servings of vanilla ice cream, and they ate together in comfortable silence for a while.

  


That was ten years ago. Today the brothers were fighting again.

“I told you it wouldn’t do you any good, getting angry.” Mycroft stated calmly as he offered his handkerchief. Sherlock wiped his bleeding nose roughly on his sleeve and launched himself at his brother again, face contorted with rage.

“She was our mum!” he screamed. “The least you could do is to shed a tear!” Mycroft entangled his arms and twisted around to bring Sherlock to the ground again.

“Why?” he asked. “What good would it do her?” His brother struggled in vain to get free. “My grieving won’t bring her back anymore than your anger will.” He released his hold when Sherlock relaxed.

“Maybe it would help me!” Sherlock said through his tears.

“I don’t understand, brother.” Mycroft honestly didn’t. “It’s a waste of energy, distracts the mind when there are things that need doing, arrangements to be made and such.”

“Didn’t you love her at all?” Sherlock asked, strain in his voice.

“My love will manifest itself through useful action, as it ever has,” Mycroft said with only the hint of a sneer. “Not wasteful displays of weakness and insecurity.”

Sherlock could barely control the fire inside him to turn and walk out into the cold London rain. He let the deluge seep into his very core, and his racing heart steadily slowed to match the rhythm of his feet on the pavement.

Later that night, after Mycroft had finished what arrangements had to be made, the brothers shared a silence broken only by a crackling fire in the hearth. Mycroft opened a pack of cigarettes, and they shared that too.

  


Ten years later Sherlock listened to a family’s sobs echo through the cold, stoney hallway of Bart’s morgue.

“Look at them. They all care so much.” a careful hint of disgust in his voice. “Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?” Sherlock posed the question to reassure himself of the answer.

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.” Mycroft’s reply seemed to satisfy, but Sherlock could still feel the echoing hollow, cold and damp ashes. He accepted the proffered cigarette, a rare treat, and took a slow drag, relishing the taste for a moment.

“This is low tar.”

“Well...” Mycroft’s smile was almost sympathetic. “You hardly knew her.”

Sherlock was still fighting, but these days he fought mostly against himself. And if he ever lost the fight then all of the passions that burned within him found the only avenue of expression left open to them, and the fire of his rage lit his eyes and warmed his soul... if only for a little while.


End file.
